


Four Times Tim Gutterson Was Good For Colton Rhodes and Twice They Were Good For The Other

by Epictry



Category: Justified
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Decisions, Banter, Detox, Developing Relationship, Drunk Sex, Dysfunctional Relationships, Gay Sex, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Tried, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Name Calling, Rehabilitation, Sarcastic Tim is sarcastic, Secret Relationship, Slow To Update, Sorry Not Sorry, What-If, shit-talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:28:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Epictry/pseuds/Epictry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six separate short tales with the common theme of Tim Gutterson being good for his canon arch-nemesis, Colton Rhodes. They have such great chemistry that I think with some happy accidents, they could have gotten along and been great friends (aka gotten married on a fabulous unicorn and had 20 kids). No, but really, it ships itself. </p><p>In this fic you will find snark and politically incorrect teasing and drinking as only two vets can properly do. They also have poignant "wtf-is-this-lonesome-dove" reflective cowboy moments. Oh and they wrestle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Tim Gutterson Was Good For Colton Rhodes and Twice They Were Good For The Other

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wargasms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wargasms/gifts).



> I wrote this mainly because it was plot bunny city in my head after I watched the finale. To be fair, I also marathon-ed the last half of the 4th season. Aside from the plot bunnies required to write something I did this for my super cool lovely brah in crime, Dee Pow aka Wargasms. She always supports my whims even when she has to wait MONTHS or nearly a WHOLE FREAKIN YEAR for updates on fics. <3 You’re an angel.
> 
> Also, this is a canon divergence. For the purposes of this story, there is no reason for Colt and Tim to have bad blood. Mark is alive and sort of well. I haven’t really solved the whole “new canon means an alternate storyline so how to have that epic IED/convoy dialogue with Tim/Colt still happen” conundrum. I just never got into at what episode point Tim would have gotten through to Colt and gotten him to turn face. So, if you’re wondering about that when you read this fic, then the answer is: BECAUSE REASONS.

Four Times Tim Was Good for Colt:

1.

Colton Rhodes laid stretched the length of Tim Gutterson’s couch. A rerun of a long cancelled sitcom ran on the screen. Tim could tell from the glazed over look of his eyes and the blank expression, that even though Colt seemed to be watching the program, his mind had wandered somewhere else.

This had been happening a lot.

Tim would find Colt wasting time with the TV on and mind adrift in some memory or thought process, or out on the deck in the back, staring off at the trees just beyond the backyard fence. It occurred to him more than once that this habitual tuning out couldn’t be a positive sign in Rhodes’ recovery.

Tim had put pressure on himself to try to keep his hours as normal as possible; just in an attempt to be there more – to be a presence and remind the washed up MP not to even entertain the idea of scoring dope, not even a little pinch to pass the time or get by for a few hours. That line of thinking dipped into the obviously ‘unhealthy’ for Tim. The drug counselors from the VA rehab told him not to make it his responsibility to keep Colt clean. He’d been trying to keep to that and be supportive and not an enabler, but goddamn if sometimes it would just be a lot easier if Colt would shut up and let Tim do the heavy lifting on this.

Then, thanks to the monotony of being on stakeout, he’d gotten an idea of how he could feel as though he were doing _something_ , without being a mother hen about the whole thing and send Colt on a complete freak out. Tim didn’t want to wind up at another drug dealer’s apartment arranging payment plans like he had with Mark. He didn’t want to deal out tough love and kick Colt out for slipping. The last thing he wanted to do was bring in the law. He’d done that with Mark and Mark didn’t return his letters or show up to the other side of the Plexiglas to entertain Tim’s attempts to visit , in jail, the rehab center or the halfway house.

_On this particular evening, watching and hoping a fugitive would make the walk of shame home to his double wide trailer to call on his estranged common-law wife, Gutterson had just taken over for Rachel Brooks. For the length of time they’d been sitting on the house, they’d fallen into a schedule of taking turns at watch and resting eyes, like weary air-traffic controllers. Rachel claimed to be resting. As far as Tim could figure she’d checked her email, Facebook wall, comments, and texted with her sister right before getting locked into an ugly, curse-filled 5 rounds of Candy Crush that just sent her into a downward spiral of Angry Birds, which must have gone better because the profanity cut short and gave way to silent hisses of victory. If Tim had to guess Rachel messed around for an hour before finally dropping the seat back and shutting her eyes. She hadn’t said one word during her social media and game binge, either._

_Tim knew what he had to do._

“Hey,” Tim called out strolling toward the couch and giving a tap to it with the toe of his boot.

Groggy, Colt turned from the TV to look up at Tim and shifted quickly so that he sat up straight. Tim smirked and put out his hand out, palm up, to Colt.

“Give me that piece of shit burner flip phone.”

“Oh man,” Colt complained, making a pained face even as he shoved his hand into his front pants pocket, “Seriously? I’m not using. I’m not calling any old acquaintances. I go to work, which blows by the way, and come straight here, which also blows by the way. Your cable package is terrible.”

“Well, when you get promoted to assistant janitor of the soup kitchen you can put in on that,” Tim began, shooting his usual rapid fire sarcasm as banter, before abruptly cutting himself off and giving an apologetic look to the disheveled as ever long haired man.

He sensed how uneasy he’d just made Colt by asking for the phone and dogging the first honest work his friend had done in a long while.

“Okay, sorry, but seriously, gimme the phone.” Tim gestured Colton to pony up the phone by clasping his fingers to his palm a few times.

“Do I get some sort of explanation?” Rhodes asked, still affronted and skeptical of playing along with whatever Gutterson had going.

“Yup, but hand that piece of crap over already.”

Colt sighed and withdrew his hand with the flip phone swallowed up in his fist. He palmed it into Tim’s hand and let his expression fall, communicating his displeasure adequately to the clean cut Ranger, sniper, Deputy Marshall who’d taken him in after setting him on the path of everlasting straight and narrow – well, mostly straight and narrow.

Then it was Gutterson who sighed and turned the phone over in his hands, taking off the plastic back cover of the phone that protected the battery, popped out the battery with his thumbnail and removed the SIM card. He smirked, tossing the battery and cover onto the couch, landing them on one of the two empty cushions.

Tim flipped open the phone and snapped it in two right at the hinge.  Colt gasped and gawked openly at Tim.

“The hell?” Colt gaped, caught between exasperated and bewildered at the sudden harsh treatment.

Tim grinned and reached into his pocket, shaking his head slightly.

“Now I get why Raylan loves doing that to Boyd so much,” Tim chuckled.

“And I say again, THE HELL?” Colt demanded, struggling to remain composed and not at all finding things as funny as Tim seemed to.

Tim waved a flat full screen smart phone at Colt, his smirk turning into a full broad grin.

“Oh God! Of all the things!” Colt complained, dramatically throwing up his hands before he slumped back on the couch and slammed his palms down into the cushions either side of him.

“You’re going to love it.” Tim shot back, turning the phone over to find the side port to install the SIM card. “This has games, better texting that involves more than one thumb, a ridiculously clear screen, apps, and I got you unlimited data so you can surf the web to your black heart’s content, watch Netflix or YouTube or, whatever.”

“Can I search for how to smother an asshole sniper without him hearing me tiptoe into his room?”

“You could, but that’s fucked up considering I got you the phone and all.”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about you. It’s just a hypothetical sort of situation,” Colt retorted with a hint of a smirk, reaching up to tuck strands of his long hair behind one ear.

“Well, hypothetically, the only thing you’re now allowed to be addicted to is Candy Crush,” Tim mocked.

“You are such a dick. How do you have friends?” Colt snorted.

Tim handed the phone to Colt who took it with subdued enthusiasm and looked it over, tentatively touching the screen and swiping to move the icons. Tim looked over to the TV as a commercial ended, out of habit. He openly laughed and turned his head to look at Colt who seemed swallowed up in swiping and tapping the clear bright screen of his new phone.

“Jesus, were you watching Everybody Loves Raymond?”

“Huh?” Colt looked up from the phone and to Tim then the TV before shrugging and looking back down to the phone.

Feeling more accomplished than a second-string high school ball player scoring his first touchdown, Tim scooped up the discarded parts he’d tossed to the couch and sauntered from the room, headed for the closest trash can to throw away the remnants of the near past.

 

2.

“Oh, it’s impressive. I’m absolutely truly impressed. I am just curious how you DID manage to smuggle it?”

Colt lifted the amber bottle of beer and took a short pull. He rolled his shoulders slightly, lowering his beer back to resting on his thigh and looked over at Gutterson.

“The truth?” he asked, tilting his head slightly to the side.

“Yup. If I kept a Bible I’d make you put your hand on it and everything.”

Colt snorted. “Why not? You have all the Harry Potters.”

“Those are well-written and believable, okay.” Tim grinned, lifting his beer to his lips and looking over to Colt, expectantly.

“Okay, okay,” Colt started, lingering on the last syllable to draw out the suspense. “Well, I’ll tell you, but only since you asked so nicely.”

“Get on with it then,” Tim egged taking his swig.

Colt burped and took another drink.

Tim objected just as Colt’s lips parted with a twinge meaning he had stifled a smile.

“Alright, asshole. I’m on to you. Take off the glasses. I can probably tell if you’re lying anyway, but why make it harder on myself,” Tim told Colt, waving his bottle of beer in hand pointing at Colt’s standard-issue aviators.

“Fine.”

True to his word, Tim could tell Colt had rolled his eyes at Tim before pulling off the glasses and blinking furiously against the sunset bearing down on the horizon.

“So, here it is. The secret to smuggling a service weapon home.” Colt took a deep breath and released it, “You know how some mornings I get up and I’m in the bathroom for like 45 minutes and there’s a lot of grunting and –“

Tim threw out his arm and laid a hefty swat on Colt’s shoulder before laughing. Colt shifted to the opposite side trying to avoid Tim’s backhanded swats.

“I told you man. It was a _dirty_ secret.” Colt laughed heartily, laugh lines becoming crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes.

“Go to hell,” Tim smiled, taking a long drink and letting out an exaggerated sound of contentment. “I don’t need to know that badly how you did it and if you want to shove a .45 up your ass, that is your business and I am not going to judge.”

“I’m just kidding. I didn’t smuggle a handgun by shoving it up my ass,” Colt said with a smirk.

He paused and let a smile curve the corners of his lips. “After DADT folded it was pretty easy to find a willing mule.”

Tim rolled his eyes and his mouth twitched as he tried not to laugh.

“That’s wrong.”

“Wrong’s pretty relative when you’ve been _in the shit_. Cracking a joke at the expense of a minority of soldiers is wrong, but it’s a little more wrong to go whacking civilians, melting faces, and killing babies, too.”

Tim’s smile fell and he took a quick drink. Colt looked down at his lap and took a quick sip.

“So,” Tim started, swishing around the remaining liquid in the bottom of his beer bottle. “You want to head up to the VFW and get shitfaced tonight?”

“Sounds like a plan. Better than looking at your ugly mug until I slip into a boredom coma.”

Tim rose from the folding metal and woven plastic thread lawn chair he’d bought at a dollar store the summer before. He finished the beer and stepped off the raised porch, walking to the spicket and rinsing the bottle. Tim rinsed and kept all the beers drank from a bottle for target practice. They went in a cardboard box that he kept conveniently under the covered porch. Tim tucked the bottle in with several of its twins just as Colt hauled himself out of his bargain store lawn chair and, without prompting, started toward the spicket.

 

3.

It happened when they both drank far too much. In anticipation of 4th of July Tim had actually taken the coffee table out of the living room and hid it in the garage. They would try to best each other and it would get heated. Next thing he knew, he’d be across the room trying to grapple and leg-sweep Colt to the floor. Colt could hold his own using his build to the advantage. They traded wins, a headlock here, a sleeper hold there, maybe Colt would tap out before turning purple or maybe Tim would hold out until biting Colt’s hand seemed like a reasonable idea.

There had been teeth marks. There had been stitches on one occasion. Tim was not proud of that time he thought he was about to have to perform CPR. Colt was not proud of being put unconscious. They had a mutual understanding of not talking about the whole thing.

Colt didn’t think it was weird in the least. It was everything his time in the service had been, just in the grass or on hardwood and carpet floors, rather than a sandy desert.

And then it became nothing whatsoever like being in the army.

It had been crushing weight and limbs wrapped around his waist. It had been laughing and drunk teetering, collapsing sideways. It became grab Tim’s face and cup his palms to those burning hot red cheeks to take what he wanted to take and do what he wanted to do.

It became Tim’s tongue sliding into his mouth and no protest. It had been losing his balance and sort of falling on top of Tim, anyway. It became the heels of combat boots against the back of his knees and running down his calves when Tim moved his hips to make more room for Colt to fit flush against him.

It developed into a long, breathe through your nose and don’t come up for air because that might ruin everything and bring it to an end tonsil hockey, a teenagers in heat couldn’t even keep up, make-out session. It settled into finally ending that kiss and starting another, because it just felt better than both the alternatives, and maybe better than anything in hook up history.

Colt had never really considered the possibility of attacking Tim’s mouth like that. Maybe it was the leg lock that turned into the wrap my legs around your waist lock. It could have just confused the whole thing and, being drunk, had triggered the default response in him. He hadn’t been checking Tim out, no jerk off fantasies in the shower or otherwise to speak of, and this type of shit hadn’t happened with a guy since the days he used acne cream.

Yet, when he tried to sit up, let go of Tim’s face, and really make an effort to lift his body off of Tim, he only succeeded in propping himself up on his forearms and inadvertently grinding himself against Tim’s crotch. A pained moan rose from his throat and escaped his lips unchecked, because all his attention had gone straight to the way it felt when his erection grazed Tim’s through the layers of jeans and pants and zippers and buttons and all their complete ignorance of what had been happening all those impromptu wrestling matches after so many beers.

“Jesus,” Tim shut his eyes and pursed his lips, breathing through his nose so hard that his nostrils flared.

Colt froze, unsure if he needed to sober up as fast as possible on the off-chance Tim decided to finally have his overdue psychotic break and snap. Tim wet his lips, let them smack and looked up at Colt.

“Are you good with this, Colt?”

He should have weighed the pros and cons. He should have given long thought to his history and Tim’s history. Then he should have considered the lasting implications of a life changing decision like this and how it would affect both of them when they didn’t have more alcohol than blood in their veins. Colt should have bothered to ask Tim if this was what he really wanted, if maybe he had some pent up issues that might come barreling out of the closet late at night and turn into childhood regression.

Colt nodded and rolled off Tim, pulling Tim along by the lapels of his black flannel shirt. Tim made a noise between a giggle and a yelp but wasted no time in throwing one leg over Colt, straddling him at the waist. Tim took his turn, cupping Colt’s stubbly face, just beneath his earlobe and side burn and running the other hand, through the shaggy, curtain of Colt’s dirty-blond brown hair, and laid his lips to Colt’s, working his mouth back to wide open.

Tim bore down on Colt, rutting against him, trying to recreate that previous move where there hard-ons collided. He couldn’t get the angle exactly right, but it didn’t matter much, because it felt amazing. He’d always gotten straight to the point when he had someone down on their back beneath him, but this time he had no idea what to do or how far to go.

Colt pulled back from Tim breaking the kiss, out of breath, but eyes half lidded and fighting to raise completely.

“If I come in my pants, you don’t get to laugh,” Colt warned.

Tim rested his forehead against Colt’s and kissed him; this time chaste and brief. He ground against Colt, two short upstrokes, graceful in spite of the circumstances. Colt panted. Tim chewed on his own bottom lip, but kept his momentum, putting all the pressure he could to his knees on the carpet.

Colt tilted his chin up and covered Tim’s lips with his. Tim opened his lips to Colt’s kiss and let a satiated moan from his throat hum between them. Colt’s hands found Tim’s hips and lifted them slightly, shocking him out of his reverie and back into his ministrations. Tim moved against him, still gasping and purring out his orgasm.

“Fuck,” Colt gasped, before moaning against the kiss and following Tim down the rabbit hole of a fine dry humping induced orgasm.

Tim slumped forward still locked in a kiss, twisting tongue and swallowing Colt’s moans. Colt’s hands slid down Tim’s hips, both hands with fingers outspread gathering handfuls of Tim’s ass to squeeze. Tim moaned his appreciation, drawing back and tugging Colt’s bottom lip, easing Colt’s head back until it rested on the floor.

“I came in my pants first.” Tim said, smart-alecky sarcasm pouring on thick, as per usual, “Happy?”

Colt’s right hand gave Tim’s ass a squeeze and stroked up the length of Tim’s body, coming to rest just at the nape of his neck, providing enough leverage to pull Tim down, bringing his face to Colt’s. Tim already started to smirk before their lips met, if only briefly before Colt answered him smugly.

“You have got _no_ idea.”

 

4.

The argument had actually gone better than Colt had anticipated. Tim discovered him up at an unholy hour rifling through his footlocker in Tim’s garage searching for his binoculars. Naturally, Tim wanted to know what the fuck Colton needed binoculars at four a.m. and why so badly.

Colt considered an elaborate lie about PTSD and then smoothing it over with a blowjob, waiting for Tim to nod off into post-orgasmic bliss and then sneaking off. He really leaned toward the option that involved sucking Tim off, too. Instead, he laid out the actual reason like it would have been the most obvious explanation in the world.

“Look, I gotta go meet up with Boyd. Some shit’s gone down and he’s up the creek.”

Tim’s eyes opened wide and he shook off any drowsiness, folding his arms across his white shirt as he remained hovering over Colton and the foot locker.

“Are you out of your fucking mind? You’re running off in the night to Harlan to run to Boyd Crowder’s rescue?”

Colt looked up at Tim, the light from his cellphone being used as a flashlight lit up his face so Tim had no question about his sincerity when Colt looked him in the eye.

“I still owe him one, and how about some points for not trying to bullshit you.”

Tim rolled his eyes and nodded down at the locker. He rocked on his heels for a minute, resigning himself to the fact that Colt was a grown man. Also, it would probably get ugly if he tried to put Colt in a sleeper hold. Colt had gotten dressed and had on his steel toes while Tim had dragged himself out of bed wearing a threadbare white undershirt and a pair of boxers with no shoes on.

“What are you searching for so loudly and at the same time ineffectively?”

Colt returned the brief glare before answering Tim.

“I know I had this pair of binoculars.”

Tim sighed and walked around Colt to the grey metal two-door storage closet where Tim had started trying to organize his junk into junk-for-camping, junk-for-hunting, and junk-for-cars so that he could maybe free up a shelf to give Colt for his amassing pile of tools or random Ford Certified parts.

“The great duck hunting failure of last month,” Tim muttered. “Shine the light over here for a minute?”

Colt stood up from the foot locker and pointed the cell phone flashlight to Tim, who twisted the handle of the closet and pulled open the creaky door. It took him under thirty seconds to shut the closet door and turn back around with the binoculars in hand. He held them out to Colt, before pulling them back at the last second.

“I’m not going to ask because I probably don’t want or need to know, but if you need backup, you better tell me upfront or call me.”

Colt sighed and shook his head, “It’s just recon. I’m just on his radar because of my particular skill set.”

Tim stared at Colt, looked at him hard, trying to detect any hint of a lie by sheer force of will. He’d always been a good judge of character. He didn’t smell bullshit, but he didn’t trust anything Boyd Crowder did to be all the way legal or free of consequence. Tim set his jaw, passed over the binoculars and folded his arms back across his chest, imposing and making clear his objection.

“You know, you’ve had to do some sketchy off-the-clock shit with Raylan before. I didn’t come up giving you the Mother Hen routine.”

Tim opened his mouth to object and shut it with an earnest furrowed brow. Colt had him on that one.

“Not at four in the morning!” Tim finally countered.

Colt didn’t skip a beat. “Oh god, you’re right. What was it 3:52? A freckle past a hair north of dawn?”

Tim stepped out of Colt’s way to the garage door that led back into the house and dropped his arms, hands at his waist in a defensive posture. Colt stepped forward and walked past Tim into the house. He didn’t want to leave things angry between them, but Tim didn’t make it easy to smooth things out before he took off.

Colt took his fatigue jacket out of the closet and shrugged into it, tucked the binoculars into the front pocket and out-of-habit palmed his side for his handgun.

Tim watched from the kitchen as Colt tensed at the absence of his piece and stalked away from the coat closet by the front door back into the bedroom to find his gun. So Tim followed after Colt and caught him ear-to-the-phone and phone-to-the shoulder, trying to load a spare magazine while muttering responses. Tim hung back behind the door jam, out of Colt’s line of sight and listened.

“…Yes, and I’m going to be on my way… because I can’t find shit in the middle of the night when you wake me the hell up. Some of us have to actually work during the day for our money, Boyd. … No, I didn’t tell him where I was headed. I didn’t mention anything. … what? No. He’s asleep. … Look, I’ll get there when I get there. The quicker you shut up the faster I can move.”

Tim had to suppress a triumphant smirk – Colt didn’t lie to him. Colt told him enough need to know information, not enough to put Tim in a bind. But when it came to Boyd, Colt had no trouble dodging questions and outright lying about Tim even being awake, let alone what he knew.

Tim waited a precious few seconds and then entered the room. Colt had a box of ammo on top of the bed spread and was loading a third magazine. Tim climbed in on his side, pulled the quilt up over his legs and settled down, watching Colt.

 “Colt,” Tim started, the apologetic tone of his voice wavering just a bit as foreign as it felt on his tongue, “I trust you. I don’t trust Boyd, because I know he’s a dipshit from past experience. So, I’m just going to tell you if you get into trouble – call me first.”

“I know Boyd’s a dipshit. I arrested Boyd plenty before you ever had the pleasure. This is not breaking news and I know you got a hero-stiffy for everyone, but I don’t need saving. Not this time.”

Tim didn’t look convinced.

“Pretend I’m going out to get a gallon of milk or something. I don’t know,” Colt offered as a final thought, closing the box of ammo and setting it on the dresser before he holstered his .45 caliber at his side.

“Just don’t get your head blown off or I’ll take it badly and have that psychotic break we’ve all been waiting for.”

“Oh,” Colt smiled, walking around the bed and kissing Tim on the temple, “No chance in the world I’d miss that.”

 

 

And Twice Tim and Colt Were Good For the Other

1.

“I think we’re at the point that I need to tell you something that’s been on my mind a while,” Tim said in his tempered tone, the one where Colt couldn’t quite tell if he should take Tim seriously or prepare himself for a one-two verbal knockout.

Colt just groaned, “Okay, let’s hear it.”

Tim opened his mouth, but Colt cut him off before he could continue. “Wait, but is this about being a tranny?”

Tim fixed a pointed glare at Colt and then rolled his eyes. They could both be terrible at turning conversations into an hour of irrational banter and what some might consider exceptionally intelligent flirting. Lately, the jabs about questionable-beyond-first-glance sexuality had been in abundance.

Tim figured it stemmed from the fact that he worked, ate, drank way too much, slept a little and then did it all over again with slight variances for doing a load of laundry or gracing the Veteran’s Center with his presence. Tim had never brought home a date or alluded to going out on one since Colt had come to stay with him. For that matter, Colt had never brought anyone home, but Tim thought that may have just been part of being respectful; then again, it was Colt.

This particular night they’d gone driving because by midnight both had yet to settle down enough to sleep. Tim confessed he missed patrol and Colt offered to drive and indulge the nostalgic urge. They took off in Colt’s beat, worn-in, comfortable Bronco and found their way by Colt demanding left, right, straight at every intersection they came to. Tim had thrown a few lefts out when he knew Colt couldn’t get from the far right lane in time, but other than that, it hadn’t been particularly eventful.

“I won’t even dignify that with a response, but since you bring it up. Do you realize what a porn star name you have? I mean, really? Colt Rhodes?”

Colt smiled, showing his top row of teeth. “I can’t say your last name without almost saying ‘gutter slut’ by mistake.”

Tim tried to stifle a smirk, but Colton laughed out loud as if he hadn’t been the one delivering the punch line. Tim palmed his forehead and sighed.

“What are we even doing?”

“Driving around because I can’t sleep and not even drinking myself to sleep would work at this point. All because of this damn medicine the doc stuck me with. I should just take it in the morning not whenever the hell I remember which is usually not at all before my third cup of coffee; it’s usually just when I walk in the door and remember they’ve been in my pocket all fucking day, but I’ve been at work and my jacket is stuffed in my locker,” Colt paused if only just to breathe, before continuing his tirade, “Shit, do we need coffee? Are we out?”

Tim grunted and shrugged.

“If we’re out of coffee and I find this out at 0600 when I wake up and not right now when I can still do something about it – I’m going to lose my shit.”

“Go get more coffee then. What’s the worst that can happen - we have too much coffee stock piled?” Tim retorted, looking out the passenger window intently keeping his gaze a few car lengths ahead on the dark country road, looking for movement or debris, _just looking for something_.

Silence ruled supreme in the truck. Colt found a driveway and pulled a 3-point turn to double back the way they’d come in the direction of civilization, stores, and ground coffee to buy in the largest size available.

“Are you going to finish with your big revelation?” Colt asked, drawing Tim out of his trance of staring at the shoulder as far ahead as the headlights would allow.

“My what?”

“You were about to tell me something.”

Tim smiled from the side of his mouth. “Just that your name sounds like a shitty 80’s porn star name.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment, Tim. You know why? Because I can tell that beneath that scathing observation, there is true deep affection for me. And because I can tell that you are just trying in your own damaged-goods, fucked-up-soldier, daddy-issues man-boy way to tell me you think I am the best thing to happen to Kentucky since Colonel Sanders put it on the map.”

Tim sat with a smile raising the other corner of his lips for a moment before relenting.

“You got me, Colt. You cut right through all the layers to the core of me.”

“Chock it up to me being the best. Before that whole baseball fiasco I was - not trying to be cocky - probably the best MP there was or ever will be.”

“Your ego is actually so huge right now I may have to open a window to let it breathe.”

“Settle, Miss Daisy. I’m only kidding. I was definitely in the Top 10 though – historically speaking.”

“Call me Miss Daisy ever again and I will be taking a memento off your warm corpse.”

Colt snorted and the grin faded from his face. “Oh, is that the line. Did we just draw that?”

“Yup, that’s the line. Right. There. Double yellow and dead serious.”

Colt remained silent and pressed his foot to the gas. Tim shifted in his seat, finding it uncomfortable and the squeak of the suspension and shock absorbers irritating.

Colt glanced over and could see the tension mounting in Tim’s shoulders, down his arms, to fingers. His trigger hand clenched into a fist resting on his lap and Colt knew somehow, accidentally at best, he had hit a nerve.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Colt offered quietly. “You sure as shit don’t owe me an explanation, not after all you’ve done for me. I’ll knock it off for a while.”

Tim took in a deep breath and held before releasing.

“You weren’t the first genius to put together that my name sounds like ‘gutterslut’ either.”

Colt couldn’t help but smirk, and took his eyes off the road to look at Tim for more than just a hesitant peripheral acknowledgment.

“It really had to be said. I mean, I’ve got to keep my dignity with a porn star name on my work badge at a shopping mall. The least you could do is own the ‘gutterslut’ thing.”

“Colt Rhodes: Dirty Mall Cop,” Tim teased, shaking off the earlier affront. “I might trademark that as soon as we get back to the house.”

“Oh god, I _am_ a mall cop.” Colt whined, “I’ve never said it out loud. It’s painful.”

“Just a stepping stone; you get your One Year chip and I’ll put in a word, then you’ll be in the bigger leagues.”

Colt went silent, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. They rarely discussed the future and the terms of the arrangement. It didn’t need reinforcement on a daily basis. Colton knew he owed Tim, probably his entire life, everything he still owned, and would owe him big for the rest of time and probably several thousands of dollars in rent and semi-board. He knew the eventual goal, because he’d set it for himself. He’d done the work and gone to the rehab facility to get clean. He’d stuck with the program and went to meetings twice a day since he reentered actual society. He had the weight on his shoulders that if he screwed up there would be no going back and no hope for him. He still had cravings and a mountain of regrets giving his brain a beating with the constant onslaught of replaying his many failures and reasons to give up and embrace total self-loathing through addiction.

Tim had put it out there on visitor’s day that if he couldn’t handle the halfway house, if it carried too many temptations and connotations, if it made him itchy and got in his head, he could stay with Tim. In the event that Colt did take up Tim on the hospitable offer, it would be on the condition of always going one-day-at-a-time. Colt knew that any faster a speed than that and he’d fall flat on his face off the wagon.

“Well, only, what, 137 days to go? But who’s counting.”

“Shit,” Tim complained, before apologizing quickly, “I’m sorry.”

Colt shrugged and slowed with the brake for the upcoming stop sign. “It’s alright. We both suffer from the curse of good looks and foot-in-mouth disease. It happens.”

Tim leaned back against his seat and let out a withheld breath.

“Miss Daisy,” Colt coughed into his fist.

“And that is so the only one you are getting for free. The next one,” Tim looked over and made a slitting motion with his finger across his throat, “I’m ending you.”

 

2.

Colt hated everything about his day. Waking up had been harder than usual, and of course, he somehow managed to pour the worst cup of coffee in the history of ever. He sort of remembered Tim’s schedule for the day – up at the ass crack of pre-dawn way before Colt and all in the hopes of being home after rush hour. He’d be doing a prison transfer and maybe Raylan would come along, but in all likelihood it would be Rachel.

Rachel scared the shit out of Colt. He couldn’t ever admit this out loud, and Tim swore she would mellow once the divorce wasn’t so recent. Colt humored Tim in this, keeping his normally wise ass and loud mouth shut around her. Even so, he liked the thought of Rachel backing Tim over Raylan any day.

Sure, Raylan had that lawman old Western quick draw thing going for him, but at least Rachel showed some sort of consistency. Plus, as much as Rachel had him quaking in his boots with her scowl and acerbic wit, Raylan made it flat out clear he had no intention of ever joining the Colton Rhodes fan club.

Colt had met Tim’s boss a grand total of one time and all signs pointed to Art not giving a particular flying shit about Colt. It boded better than disliking him, but it still didn’t seem that encouraging in a future-boss sort of way.

Colt’s day went something like, walk the mall perimeter, walk the main drag, enjoy a reprieve with even worse coffee than he’d made, only due to long term scalding, while watching security monitors, then back to walking around talking shit on his radio to his dickhead boss. At some point he’d gotten to shove around a couple of fourteen year old shoplifters until the real cops arrived and sent him packing. He drove a few pain in the ass department store customers to their cars after they’d dropped a pretty penny in the stores and had concerns about their safety with top dollar items. He could tell they just wanted to set their bags down and let the golf-cart do the walking.

It sucked, but it supposedly made a living and once he had a year clean he could hopefully get the hell out and never have to do it again. Not that the can of mace on his belt didn’t make him feel powerful. His favorite part of the day was pulling off his utility belt and ditching it in the passenger seat before driving off to his evening NA meeting and then back to what had become home.

He’d gone to his meeting, had another cup of coffee along with a muffin, and bared his soul to a group of fourteen strangers who nodded and applauded that he hadn’t shot up, smoked, or gone completely off the reservation in the process of avoiding getting high. He’d made it another 24 hours – hooray for him.

He was halfway back to Tim’s house when his phone rang. He’d saved two numbers in his phone about six months after moving in with Tim, just in case of emergencies. On the off chance cell towers went crazy, phones died, or whatever other catastrophe Tim felt like projecting about, Colt had put Rachel and Raylan’s phone numbers in his phone.

Colt swallowed before answering.

“Yeah.”

“Colt?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s Raylan. I’ll make it quick – Tim is at the hospital and he’s okay. Thing is, he wants to check himself out AMA and he’s being a real shithead about it.”

The panic and dread had set in, but Colt managed to slow down the car and pull off the road to the narrow shoulder and grassy ditch. He could hear Tim’s voice faintly in the distance, but he couldn’t make out what he’d said.

“What’s he saying?”

“Moronic shit about arranging for me to have an accident. Anyway, he’s ready to go, but he’s in no shape. He wants to drive himself. The doctors can’t force him to stick around and he ain’t listening to me about it.”

Colt sighed, “Put him on.”

“Let me go ahead and put you on speaker. Tim’s liable to fling my phone at the wall if I just hand it over.”

Colt couldn’t help but smirk. He’d never stopped to imagine stoic and brooding Tim Gutterson laid up with an injury. The current predicament made sense. Tim didn’t take to coddling. He barely coddled Colt, though, and even then it came with a confidentiality clause.

“Hey, it’s Colt. Stop being a fucking idiot and stay at the hospital.”

“I’m fine. My shoulder is sore and I got some cuts and bruises. I got like five stitches. I wish it were as big a deal as Raylan is making it out to be, but it’s not.”

“Oh, okay,” Raylan interjected before Colt could reply to Tim. “He left out the concussion, which is probably because he’s got memory problems – FROM THE CONCUSSION.”

“Everyone gets a concussion. You have a concussion, too.” Tim corrected, turning the floor back over to Raylan.

“Yes, I got a concussion and the seatbelt wasn’t gentle either, but I don’t have four bruised ribs _and_ a concussion. The EMTs got me out of their hair, you they made come to the hospital to get checked out.”

“I hate you,” Tim muttered.

“He smacked the driver’s window with his head. He broke the damn window.”

Tim cut Raylan off, “You’re wrong. The impact broke the window.”

“Window broken, your hard ass head sure didn’t bounce off it,” Raylan shot back.

Colt groaned and put the truck in park to let it idle. “Are you ladies done yet? You’re boring me.”

“I’m fine to drive!” Tim called out.

“Tell him he aint’ driving.” Raylan countered, “He’s going to sit here in observation for the next 24 hours because he won’t admit it, but he’s been a nice shade of green ready to yack for the last two hours.”

Colt slapped his forehead and grumbled, “Tim, if I have to come up there right now I’ll probably kill you both. I’ve had a day. I don’t care if your day was worse. I don’t care if Raylan’s car blew up. I don’t care if you got your tetanus booster and fucking lollipop for taking it like a champ. I’m halfway home and I’m not turning around to come up to the emergency room if you’re not bleeding out and ready to croak. That’s all there is to it. You’re tough, we get it. Sit down, shut up and do your time.”

The other end of the line was silent for a moment. Raylan cleared his throat and another few seconds of silence preceded Tim’s reply.

“Well, at least bring me a goddamn book to read. This is torture,” Tim complained.

“Send me a list of shit you can’t live without and _maybe_ I’ll do you a solid and bring it by before visiting hours are up.” Colt added, glancing at the rearview to see if he could safely get back on the road.

“Well, don’t go doing me any special favors. Wouldn’t want to put you out since you’ve had such a day.”

“Taking you off speaker,” Raylan said, a smile coating his tone, really twisting up Colt’s insides in the process.

Colt pulled back onto the road and pushed the gas pedal, taking out frustration with the rev of the engine trying to keep up.

“Thanks for that. I figured you live with the guy so you might know some sniper-whisperer shit that I haven’t picked up yet.”

“Yeah, no problem. His phone bite it in the crash?”

“Nah. He’s just … he’s just Tim.”

“I guess that’s as good an explanation as any. I suppose you had to force him off the scene and to go get checked out.”

“Yeah, Art let me play hooky after I put two men down. I’m sure all the details of the failed and fatal prison escape will be on the news.”

“Fantastic.”

“I’ll let Tim tell you about his part in it. Though, if you listen to the news I’m sure you’ll figure out which one of us did what.”

“Copy that. Thanks for the heads up.”

Raylan hung up first. Colt tucked his phone in his pocket and tried not to be sick. He got to the house on autopilot. He didn’t waste time and grabbed the book Tim had been reading last from the floor by the couch. He started to gather a change of clothes and then realized he could just grab the go-bag from the closet by the front door. Once he took out the ammo and firearms it would be just fine for a hospital stay.

That’s when it hit him. This was all so very real. This was the sandbox all over again. This was still life or death, day to day, and seeing people you know way too well die. This was same old, same old. It all felt familiar yet uglier, like a betrayal, for being wrapped in civility and suburbia.

The instinct to cut out and run clung to the coat tails of the worry and reality of the situation. He didn’t want to go to a hospital. He hated hospitals, medic tents, and psych wards. He’d grown a little fond of rehabs, but not in the sense he ever wanted to wind up back in one. It just sucked a little less than the former. Instinct told him to dump the go-bag out, fill it with his essentials and bolt.

Rehab told him different. Rehab was shortly after the first few days of detox – the detox he thought he could handle himself. The one that would have sent him into a seizure and probably ended his pathetic life if he hadn’t finally broken down, partly from sheer exhaustion, and let Tim take him to a hospital. That’s what happened. That’s what changed everything. Tim changed everything, that asshole.

Colt hated hospitals. He hated that Tim hadn’t called him. He hated having to play second fiddle to Raylan’s hero. He hated having to disguise any sign that he gave a shit more than hoping that Marshall he lived with didn’t buy the farm because then he’d have to move again.

Colt just hated everything at that moment.

So, he made a decision, hauled the bag up over his shoulder, grabbed the two phone chargers from the bedroom wall, stuffed them in his jacket pocket, and took out his phone.

“I need directions and a room number,” Colt said as soon as Tim answered.


End file.
